


Perfectly

by mbe



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, First Time, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbe/pseuds/mbe
Summary: He’s too far gone to wash away the stains of self-hatred at his fantasies. Francis, a man he once despised but that he had grown to trust, admire, respect, befriend…and what else?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Kudos: 37





	Perfectly

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished my second rewatch of "The Terror," and I swear I have more feelings this time around than the first time I watched it. This was born of my desire to see my boys happy ;-; 
> 
> Takes place between Episodes 6 and 7. It's your choice what Francis was initially coming to tell James.

For once in what seems like forever, it is a quiet evening on _Erebus_.

James’ cabin is dark, save for the lamplight illuminating the woodwork of his small quarters. It’s been far too long since he’s had a moment to himself – to… _unwind_. Yes. He’s always felt that such… _acts_ were below a man like him; but particularly in the recent months, he’s realized the undeniable appeal of 20 minutes of silence and privacy.

Especially since his … _discovery_ , right before Carnivale.

Tonight, James digs around under his bed linens, finding the hiding spot for what he now considers one of his most prized possessions. He feels the satiny fabric on his calloused fingertips and shivers, despite himself. The lace at the edges of the sleeves is unmistakable; the bunched-up skirts make images of how they would flutter in the cool air flash through his mind.

Carefully retrieving the dress from its confines, James looks it over, delicately, as though he can’t believe it is really his – no one else’s. _His own._ He hasn’t tried it on yet – hasn’t had the time, never mind the morale. But in sleepless nights, he’s imagined it, how it would fit his lithe, sinewy frame, the way the skirts would tickle the sensitive skin of his thighs…

It’s all too much to simply _wonder_ ; James needs to make his musings a reality.

He’s never tried on a dress before, let alone watched anyone else do so. He fiddles with the ties of the back, assuming that’s the proper place to start; once he deems it loose enough, he strips off his bedclothes, tosses them carelessly to the side, and hurriedly steps into his new attire.

It takes some work to tighten the fastenings on his own, but he manages, hands shaking all the while. The sleeves are tight around his arms with each movement and flex of muscle; it only serves to add to the sensation of thrill in James’ mind, now growing syrupy with arousal. It is everything he has imagined in those dark, cold nights, and then some. Experimentally, he finds himself twirling in his quarters like a schoolgirl and blushes; it is far from his typical perception of himself, and yet somehow, it fits perfectly all the while. It feels _freeing_ in every sense of the term, in such a way that James cannot find English words to describe it.

He smooths out the skirts and lies back on the bed, the flowy material spilling over the sides. James closes his eyes and begins. He runs a twitching hand up his abdomen, his chest, to thumb an erect nipple hidden by fabric; his hips jerk involuntarily, betraying his forced cool composure. _He’s alone, isn’t he_? _No need to be nervous._ The tiny fraction of self-doubt he holds deep in his gut springs up, and he shoves it back down. He’s done playing shy; he’s _alone_. Nobody to mock or slander him…

Just as his fingers slip beneath satin, a fleeting thought passes through him. The thought of someone seeing him like this: vulnerable, dressed in such a debauch manner, a hand slowly inching down between his legs… _no, not just someone_.

_Francis._

James bites back a moan at the very notion. _Christ, he can’t think about him now. Not like_ this. But he can’t hope to stop the thoughts now that they’ve planted themselves in James’ fantasy. His hand shakily hoists up the skirts of the dress, exposing his leaking prick, and as he wraps his fist around himself, he wishes it was Francis doing so, instead.

He’s too far gone to wash away the stains of self-hatred at his fantasies. _Francis_ , a man he once despised but that he had grown to trust, admire, respect, befriend… _and what else?_

_What else?_

Somehow, he manages not to let his mind travel there. Instead, he focuses on the here and now: splayed out on his bed, dress hiked up his hips, hand languidly stroking his length. The way the fabric caresses his skin so securely, how white sparks explode behind his tightly-shut eyelids each time he thumbs the head of his prick, the rising of euphoria slowly but surely building in his stomach…

James is interrupted from his reverie by a quick, sharp knock at the door. _Oh, no._ Damn it! _Who on Earth…at this hour…?_

No. _It couldn’t be…_

“James?” Francis’ voice calls tentatively from the other side. “I apologize, I know it’s late, but – “

James doesn’t get even get a chance to cover himself, let alone change his clothing, before Francis opts to let himself in. For a moment, neither man says anything; James feels his entire body go rigid, frozen as the ice outside. His heart pounds, fast and deep, in his ears, as he tries to picture how he looks to Francis: a sweaty, flushed excuse of a man in women’s dress, erection visible for anyone to see.

“Francis – I…” James’ mouth goes dry as he hurriedly tries to alternate between covering his intimates and yanking the dress off; he doesn’t know which is the lesser of the two evils right now. “Now, I didn’t – that is…I - “

James forces himself to glance in Francis’ direction, blinking back embarrassment and horror as best as possible. To his surprise, however, he finds Francis’ expression not one of disgust and revulsion, but one of…curiosity. _Interest? Amusement?_

Francis smirks. “Now, I’m not one to claim much knowledge on the subject…but I do have to say that colour suits you quite _nicely_ , James,” Francis remarks, languidly stepping inside James’ quarters and shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t…take you, as a man to partake in such… _affairs_.”

James hurries from his bunk to retrieve his discarded bedclothes. He vaguely wonders whether such a thing would count as insubordination, but he surmises that anything other than what he’s got on now is an improvement. “I’m… _very_ sorry, Francis, _please_ – “

“You seem to mistake my… _surprise_ …as repulsion,” Francis continues, voice soft and oddly reassuring. “If we are speaking not as first and second, but as… _friends_ …” – he pauses, as though making a point – “…I must say you look _rather lovely_.” His voice is low and quiet as he steps towards James, who is now half-naked with the skirt of the dress still tangled around his waist. He realizes that Francis is very, very close, now, and fears that the man can hear James’ heart beating.

 _Friends_. The word lingers in the air like smoke, and James wonders if he misheard Francis speak. He wants it. He wants it so badly, _needs it_. He doesn’t want to grow greedy, but the way Francis looks at him – the softness in his features, the absence of judgement in his eyes – is a look he wishes to see again. And again. _God, he wants this._ But he doesn’t want to get too close. Not yet. Not now.

Suddenly, James feels a hand on the small of his pack, cold against the flushed heat of his own skin. He jolts instinctively at the sensation, forcing his eyes to meet Francis’. The older man looks upon James with something akin to eagerness, a nearly predatory look James recognizes as desire. His breath hitches; _Francis…wants – this?_ The notion is foreign to him, the words ringing over and over in his mind, but he still struggles to comprehend them.

That is, until, Francis leans in and kisses him.

It is strange and wonderful all at once, the light scruff of Francis’ face brushing against his own. James marvels at how warm he feels, as though their lips locked together has pushed out the howling, biting wind on the other side of the wall. James, cursing his foolishness, fails to reciprocate; he’s too shocked to. Stunned, really. But he doesn’t miss the way his prick twitches from Francis’ ministrations.

When Francis pulls back there is a tentative silence. James nervously threads a hand through his sweat-slick hair, watching as Francis looks at him, a hint of a smirk on those talented lips of his. “Forgive my boldness, James…but I’m not one to waste time nor mince words.”

“I…” James cannot bring himself to form a coherent sentence; the words muddle around in his brain. _Fool!_ He wrings his hands and finds that those, in fact, do still work; cursing decorum and law straight to Hell, he grips Francis’ shoulders and kisses him again.

This time, James trembles as he makes careful work of suckling and nipping Francis’ bottom lip. It’s passionate and hungry, and when he realizes Francis is pressing his groin against his own, he lets out a low moan, swallowed up by Francis’ mouth on his.

 _“I don’t want to wait any longer,”_ Francis whispers, drawing back and beginning to shrug out of his overcoat. The oddness of the situation dawns on James suddenly: Francis still fully clothed, and he half-naked in a woman’s dress. Somehow – perhaps through raw desire clouding his senses – he finds he doesn’t care any longer. The tension between his legs is growing unbearable, and the sight of Francis stripping down before _him_ , in _his_ cabin, does nothing to ease the ache in his cock. “I’ve waited long enough.”

 _“…yes,”_ James breathes, as Francis backs him into his bunk. He lies back down, half-reclining, while Francis steps between his legs, firm hands gripping his thighs and gently digging into the flesh. Carefully, Francis peels off the skirt of the dress from James’ flushed skin, exposing his rock-hard, throbbing prick. James grits his teeth as cool air finds the heat of his groin, where Francis is leaning in.

“James,” Francis says suddenly. “I need to be sure…do you want this?”

James feels his heart swell to the point of nearly bursting; he wants to cry and beg and _moan_ beneath him, let Francis have him until he can’t see straight, can’t walk for a fortnight. _Fuck_ , he _wants_ it, has wanted it for longer than his lust-driven mind can even recall.

Instead, he nods his head frantically, his breathing rapid and desperate. “ _Yes_ , Francis, _please – yes_.”

There is unmistakable tenderness and rapt adoration in the way Francis presses his lips to James’ inner thighs, drawing ever so near to the spot where James needs him the most. When Francis delves his tongue between James’ arsecheeks, the latter bites his fist and groans, eyes shut tight.

“Now, now, since when have _you_ of all people ever tried to be quiet?” Francis pulls away and chides him with a squeeze of the hand on his thigh. “None of that. _Let me hear you_.” The request is low and rumbling from deep in Francis’ chest, and this time, when his tongue laps against his entrance, James arches his back and yelps, his face burning red.

Francis’ tongue inside him stokes the burning heat of desire inside James’ belly, primal and animalistic; images of Francis coming undone inside him flash in his head with every spark of fiery need that courses through his blood. He thinks of Francis telling him _he was beautiful in such a dress, that he wants him, that he can’t hope to stop himself_ …things James had long since shoved to the back of his mind. Things that had resurfaced in recent weeks the closer the two men became.

Things that were becoming reality on the bed James now lay on.

James grips the fabric of the dress as pleasure washes over him, bordering on the painful need to spend; as much as he wants Francis to continue, he knows he can’t hope to finish like this, and reaches down with a trembling hand to touch himself. Francis notices and swats James’ hand away; when he pulls away, saliva coating his lips, he leans in to loom over James’ body.

“None of _that_ , either,” he rasps, grazing his teeth against James’ chin, his throat, the end of his neck…James leans into the touches and whimpers. He’s close, so achingly close, and despite it all, he wants it to last; he fears Francis may never return, that he may never have the chance to fulfill every damned fantasy he’s ever dreamed.

When Francis pushes two fingers inside him, James cries out, throwing his head back on his bunk, panting. He knows that part of his body well, that spot within him that makes his prick go rigid and his body overflow with ecstasy. To have _Francis_ , of all men, to be the one so tenderly grazing it with his fingertips…it’s more than James can bear.

Francis slips a hand under James’ back, as if to bring him into an embrace. He begins slipping the fingers of his other hand in and out, stretching James open for what’s to come next. Whatever shame James may have felt at the start of this evening has long since vanished; when Francis crooks his fingers to rub his sweet spot once more, James jerks his hips up, wrapping his arms around Francis’ neck for some sort of leverage. He feels Francis’ hot breath against his skin, and wonders if the man is having as difficult a time controlling himself as James is.

He finds his answer when Francis withdraws his fingers and grits out a curse, inching back downwards and lining his prick up with James’ entrance.

A part of James fears he’ll spend as soon as Francis enters him, but that part is replaced with blinding, white hot pleasure at the sensation of Francis stretching him open. It’s not sweet - the lack of preparation and lubricant an obvious impediment - but it soon gives way to waves of euphoria with every motion of Francis’ hips. The older man’s body presses against the skirt of James’ dress, the material rubbing against him only adding to the myriad of sensations overwhelming him. Despite his need for release, James wishes for it all to go on, to have Francis spilling within him and crying out his name above him, rutting into him until James cannot bear it any longer, overstimulated to the brink of pain. He _could_ bear it. He _could_ , if it were Francis making him unravel just so.

“ _James…”_ Francis croaks out the name like a prayer, low in the other man’s ear. James can hear the desperation in his voice, the desire and the animalistic need of man. Wrapping his legs around Francis’ waist, he nods, his mussed hair grazing against Francis’ skin. A silent grant of permission as much as a frantic agreement.

When Francis spends, he grips the fabric of James’ dress in his fists, pressed against the latter’s abdomen, and gasps out a guttural moan, a strangled mix of blasphemy and James’ name on his lips as he pushes himself deeper. James takes that as permission to finally, finally take himself in hand, and he grips his prick – pressed between the two men’s bodies - as though his life depends on it, stroking himself rapidly until he reaches his peak; he pushes his hips down on Francis’ cock as he releases, coating the dress and himself in hot, sticky spend.

The tingling, savoury warmth enveloping James ghosts over him like a fog; he barely registers how Francis withdraws himself, grunting tiredly as he dismounts from James’ bunk. At his absence, James’ eyes shoot open, and he turns over to see Francis beginning to retrieve his clothing. “Wait,” he rasps, shucking off the dress entirely and rising to a seated position.

Francis turns to look at him, one leg already in his trousers. His expression is tired, but traced with a sort of melancholy that sends knives in James’ chest. _Regret. He regrets this._ James doesn’t want to make a further fool of himself, so he hastily blinks back tears of hurt and longing and clears his throat.

“Francis…I’m sorry, I –“

“No, it is I who should be apologizing – “

“Whatever for?” James’ eyes widen at Francis’ words. “Was I not the one who forced this…ungodly image upon you so unexpectedly?”

“ _Not a single part of you is ungodly, James_ ,” Francis whispers, still only in his undergarments, enunciating each word so forcefully James feels he is being scolded. “I shall not tolerate that level of self-depreciation. But I _will_ give you my sincerest apologies for giving into such… _desires_ , as these…and forcing _myself_ upon _you_.”

“Never,” James breathes, shaking his head in disbelief. “Please. You may have me in…whatever manner you wish.” He is serious, anxious for Francis to understand his level of devotion. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Francis gives him a small smile, taking leisurely strides over to where James is still seated. He takes the younger man’s face in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the high cheekbone. “Then I shall say the same to you, James.” He leans in to press his lips to the crown of James’ head, a wordless understanding that lingers in the air. “Perhaps we may… _discuss_ this matter on _Terror_ in the coming days.” It’s more of an order than a question; James easily pulls away the hidden meaning glinting through Francis’ words.

“I would be happy to,” James finally acknowledges, giving Francis a short nod when the latter turns to redress himself. “Happy to…”

Once Francis is properly dressed and preparing to leave, he pauses, glancing at the soiled, discarded dress at the edge of James’ bunk. He frowns, then steps over, taking it in hand and bunching it up as much as possible before awkwardly stuffing the garment in his overcoat.

“I will have this laundered,” he says simply. “For we may need it in the future, don’t you agree, James?” Francis’ knowing look leaves no room for argument; James can’t hope to object, so he merely nods silently.

Francis opens the cabin door and gives one last smug look in James’ direction. “I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line at m3v3.tumblr.com!


End file.
